


Phantom

by Flipdarkchill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Eventual Romance, M/M, Memories, Missing Persons, POV Voldemort (Harry Potter), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flipdarkchill/pseuds/Flipdarkchill
Summary: When Harry Potter disappears during the final battle, Lord Voldemort won the war in an uncontested victory.But when the boy-who-lived still isn’t found, even years later, the lingering sense of unfinished business leads the Dark Lord down the path of a dark obsession to revisit the past, reconstructing every facet of Harry Potter’s life through an endless maze of memories, seeking the answers to his questions, and yet never anticipating the result…





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to post this story too, as well as my other work. This is part 1 of the story. I hope it's okay. I will update whenever I can.

 

When Harry Potter did not show up in the forbidden forest to die, Lord Voldemort kept his promise—every witch and wizard still fighting within the castle had been mercilessly slaughtered, and anyone who continued to protect the boy-who-lived from his wrath, anyone who had ever called themselves a friend of Harry Potter’s, was tortured for information and then killed by the Dark Lord himself.

But no one knew where Harry Potter was…not even the boy’s friends. After searching the entire castle and its surrounding area for days, the only clues left were the boy’s invisibility cloak and a broken snitch— the fact that both items were found on the edge of the forbidden forest only added to the mystery of Harry Potter's sudden disappearance. 

But without the boy to stand in his way, Lord Voldemort’s takeover had been swift and quick. Too quick. All forms of resistance vanished after the final battle was lost, and like Harry Potter himself, no one seemed willing enough to fight in his place.

Back then, finding and killing the boy had been the Dark Lord’s highest priority, wanting to put an end to what he had started all those years ago…

… but it was not to be.

When the days turned into months, and the months into years…no trace of Harry Potter was ever found. Every potion failed him. No tracking spells worked. Even the connection between them seemed broken, distant. As if the boy had simply vanished into thin air, or else—

But no. Lord Voldemort would not accept it. Just as for years he did not accept many of the things that had become his own twisted reality: that, no matter who he destroyed, he was _still_ not the master of the Elder Wand; that his horcruxes were all but empty, worthless artifacts, with the sole exception of Nagini; and no matter what spell or ritual he tried, the Dark Lord could not bring them back…

 …that his victory over Wizarding Britain had been nothing but a _default_ …

_No._ Because out of everything the Dark Lord had eventually put to rest… out of everything he had reluctantly accepted after years and years of persistent denial… for whatever reason, Lord Voldemort could not do the same with Harry Potter. Without ever finishing the symbol of the light himself, without ever watching the boy-who-lived die in finality by his own killing curse… without ever putting an end to his own, wretched past and proving to himself, and the world, that Harry Potter was never _once_ capable of defeating him. Not even _knowing_ what had happened to the boy! Whether he was dead or alive, kidnapped, or else abandoned his friends in a final act of self-preservation…! _No!_ Lord Voldemort would not accept it. He _could_ not accept it...because…he knew the boy better than that … _or so he had thought._

It was only after five years of searching in vain, and the Dark Lord’s own mounting paranoia that he had made some fatal mistake concerning Harry Potter, that Lord Voldemort began to investigate the past.

He interviewed anyone who had ever known the boy-who-lived, in school or otherwise. And he ripped the memories from their minds, carefully storing them away in his private chambers…

Indeed, what started as a simple task quickly turned into an annoyingly difficult one, made more so by the fact that it was the Dark Lord himself who had killed nearly every close friend and confidant of Harry Potter’s during battle. But Lord Voldemort had yet to quit any task he had set his mind to, and after three more years of carefully gathering and storing away information, he had assembled an impressive collection of memories surrounding Harry Potter.

And so the Dark Lord began the endless task of watching and re-watching every memory he possessed of the boy-who-lived. Reconstructing everything he had ever known about his former enemy’s life.

He did not expect what he eventually found. Nor did he anticipate his thoughts would darken so thoroughly, nor sink into a near damning obsession with the ghost of a boy the world had long forgot, a mere phantom of the past, as the Dark Lord was endlessly dragged into the life and mind of Harry James Potter, and towards his own undoing.  


	2. Chapter 2

 

Perhaps it was his first mistake… to begin with something so familiar. Perhaps, it was _because_ he had chosen such a harmless, innocent memory to traverse into first, convinced as he was that this particular moment would reveal nothing the Dark Lord did not already know... perhaps it was the irony over how wrong he was, and of how sure he had been, that the very first memory he observed would forever entangle him in an endless sea of questions, contradicting everything he had ever once believed about the boy-who-lived.

Yes, Lord Voldemort had been present at Harry Potter’s sorting, even if he _was_ but a weak spirit on the back of Quirrell’s head. At the time, Voldemort had been facing the very back of the room, only capable of hearing through the muffled cloth of a turban. It was strange, he admitted, to perceive the scene from an entirely different angle, full of light and people. And watching the memory from the eyes of a former student, he noticed things did not notice before.

Indeed, he almost missed the boy entirely when scanning the crowd of first years. Harry Potter was small, much smaller than the Dark Lord recalled him to be. He watched, silent and curious, as the eleven-year-old boy’s name was called and he stumbled nervously towards the stool, the hat falling far below his eyes.  

He knew what would happen next, of course. The boy was sorted into Gryffindor, and the lion table would applause in obnoxious cheering at having the boy savior in their own house. He was just about to dismiss the entire scene and move to something more relevant, when he noticed something. It was hardly even visible, given the commotion Harry Potter’s name had caused. But as Voldemort continued to watch the boy’s sorting, by far the longest of all the children, the more he became aware that the child’s mouth was moving ever so slightly, with an increased intensity the longer he sat.

With his curiosity peaked, along with his own, internal promise to cover every detail about the boy’s life, no matter how small or irrelevant, he knelt down in front of the child, watching his mouth very closely for the next re-occurrence of words. When the whispers reached his ears, however, it came with such a shock that Lord Voldemort was left stunned.

_Not Slytherin...Not Slytherin..._

Bewildering as the idea was, Harry Potter kept repeating the phrase as if his very life depended upon it. However, after several more minutes of the boy's silent pleading, the familiar cry of Gryffindor was shouted throughout the hall, followed by the thunderous applause from the red and gold table. Everything he remembered unfolding thereafter. Harry Potter let out a small breath of relief, before hastily moving away from the stool. He passed straight through Voldemort’s frozen body, as if _he_ were the ghost...and not the other way around...

Soon enough, the hall began to fade away, the scene turning to a pale nothingness. But the unanswered question lingered in the Dark Lord’s mind, even long after the memory was over:

_Had Harry Potter, the embodiment of all things Gryffindor and Light, almost been sorted into Slytherin?_

* * *

But that was just the beginning. Surprisingly, more questions were raised as Lord Voldemort shifted through his vast collection of memories. For Harry Potter, it quickly became apparent, had not even _known_ what the four houses were upon his first trip into Diagon Alley.

Draco Malfoy had been reluctant to hand over his memories of Harry Potter. But when he had seen the Dark Lord’s wrath, and not wanting to go insane from the Cruciatus Curse, he willingly gave over everything he remembered.

Malfoy indeed proved to be a valuable source of memories, as the boy's so-called school 'rival' during his years at Hogwarts. Therefore the Dark Lord began with a memory of what was Draco Malfoy’s first meeting with Harry Potter; a rather unusual conversation within Madam Malkin’s.

But the longer he watched, the more awkward the conversation became. Lord Voldemort could tell, in the way the Malfoy heir did not, that Harry Potter did not actually know what the other boy was saying. He hesitated with his answers, or else said nothing at all while the other arrogant boy continued on. The memory raised just as many questions about Harry Potter’s life before Hogwarts as it did about his lack of awareness on the wizarding world.

The scene was also uncomfortably familiar to Voldemort’s own experience, and how very uniformed he was upon his first trip into the magical world. Like Harry, he had not even known the basics of wizarding society. Unlike Harry, however, Voldemort had his reasons. He knew the boy-who-lived had grown up with muggle relatives, but someone should have told him something of his school. _Anything._ It was quite appalling, therefore, for the Dark Lord to see just how little Harry Potter, the supposed savior of the wizarding world, had actually known before his arrival at Hogwarts.

Just then, the half-breed Rubeus Hagrid made an appearance through the shop window, carrying ice cream and pointing at Harry in rapid, wild motions. The Dark Lord was almost to the point of sneering, when a soft voice interrupted his thoughts,  

“I think he’s brilliant,” Harry Potter said, and so coldly too that Voldemort was mildly intrigued.

He turned just in time to see the Malfoy boy sneer instead, and the conversation drifting further apart, before the memory dissolved….

* * *

 Several days later, Lord Voldemort was once more mulling over everything he had witnessed about Harry Potter: the boy’s sorting, his lack of knowledge on magic, and that strange admiration for Rubeus Hagrid that should have had no grounds. Lately, the Dark Lord was often finding himself trapped in his thoughts, especially over how his views of Harry Potter were slowly changing...and how he did not seem to mind.  

So the Dark Lord found himself sitting in front of his pensieve once again, entering an entirely different memory, this time from the perspective of the half-giant himself. Lord Voldemort was favored by fate in that he had not killed Hagrid in that fateful battle years ago, but instead left him tied to the tree, as the Dark Lord had more important things to attend to at the time.

The oaf had escaped his confines during Lord Voldemort's murderous rage, but he had not bothered to hunt him down in the later years, convinced that the giant would not cause him any problems in his new reign. It wasn't until he suddenly needed any and all memories of Harry Potter that Lord Voldemort sought him out. Rubeus Hagrid hardly even put up a fight, being caught by surprise and still lacking a proper wand. When Voldemort got all that he came for, driving the half-giant's feeble mind to the brink of destruction, tucking the memories of Harry Potter inside of his cloak, he had killed the man in a silent, striking green. 

And so Lord Voldemort stood upon one of the strangest scenes he had witnessed in a long time: Hagrid, rowing a tiny wooden boat to a discreet little hut on a rock during a violent storm. As perplexing as it was, this moment was the first time Rubeus Hagrid met Harry Potter. He almost didn’t believe it. Almost. 

But Lord Voldemort followed the memory along, deciding to consider otherwise, when they finally reached the shore with its half-sunken cabin and rotting wood. Hagrid proceeded to knock so hard upon the door that it was unsurprising when it crashed down, startling whoever was inside. The Dark Lord followed him through the door, but what he saw was certainly not what he was expecting.

It took him a moment to find Harry Potter among his relatives, lying on the floor as he was, with a thread bare blanket half covering him up. His aunt, uncle, and cousin were typically muggle in the way they all scrambled to the back of the hut, while the fat man held a gun.

Harry Potter looked scared but also intrigued at the huge man. He watched as the boy scrambled to hide behind a small corner, awkwardly away from his relatives, while Hagrid replaced the door.

What followed was surprising. After a lot of shouting, confusion, and threats from the muggles, Hagrid clumsily shoved a crude birthday cake into Harry’s hands. But the boy simply stared at it, as if he had never received anything quite like it before. And then Hagrid proceeded to hand Harry Potter his first Hogwarts letter.

Questions swirled through the Dark Lord's mind when the boy was still confused. It became apparent why. He did not know what Hogwarts _was_. More shocking still was that the boy did not even _know_ he was a wizard. He sneered when the revelation came that the muggles had kept so many secrets from him, thinking they could, as his disgusting uncle had put it, 'beat the magic out of him'. How loathsome. He did not even care if his concern was for his long time enemy; no magical child should grow without magic. And no child should have their magic suppressed by fear of punishment at the hands of lowly muggles. 

He noted the ways in which Harry and him were different in the way they took the news. When Albus Dumbledore revealed to him that he was a wizard, young Tom Riddle had readily believed it was true. He had known he was special. He had known all along about his power over others, and was quite eager to learn and do more. But Harry Potter’s reaction was so… innocent, and Lord Voldemort unconsciously held his breath when the boy stumbled out in a disappointed voice,

“I'm sorry Hagrid, but I-I can’t be a wizard...”  But Hagrid just scoffed, reassuring the small boy that all the strange things he'd ever done was actually magic.

It was surreal to the Dark Lord, in ways he did not yet understand, to witness Harry Potter in such a vulnerable, youthful state. That until this very moment, he had known nothing of his past, his fame, nor anything of his magical ancestry. Everything Lord Voldemort had ever assumed was ironically being reflected back to him, as though he had never known the boy at all.    

Harry Potter had not known he was a wizard. Harry Potter had not known of magic. Harry Potter had never heard Voldemort’s name before the age of eleven...and perhaps too, this was the real reason the boy had never seemed afraid of saying his name… because he had simply... never known otherwise….

The memory dissolved thereafter, and the Dark Lord was once more left standing in front of his pensieve, lost in thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Perhaps it was yet another mistake, but fate led him curious to Harry Potter’s lack of wizarding knowledge…which led to the desire of finding the boy’s relatives, if only to gain a more thorough understanding of the boy’s home life.  

He suspected neglect; in truth, he suspected a lot of things. But what little he had seen from the fragile old mind of Arabella Figg had angered him more than he ever expected it to. And that was, apparently, just the start.

He found them, rather easily once he knew who he was looking for. And he took his time with them. He tortured them for answers about their nephew. He shred their tongues. And he stole their memories, to the point where he inevitably broke their minds. And when the muggles were no longer useful to him, no longer sane enough to respond to his questions, he had killed them, as deserved.

And that was how the Dark Lord viewed the very first moments of Harry Potter’s life.

He was not happy with what he saw. In fact, he was been so angry he could not always keep his rage from lashing out into the physical world.

The boy had lived in a cupboard under the stairs for nearly ten years. He saw the boy’s earliest moments, witnessing first hand the way his aunt and uncle refused to touch him out of disgust, to hiding the boy’s very existence from the entirety of the home and neighborhood. And when the child was no older than four, Lord Voldemort saw the way they forced him into some kind of twisted muggle servitude of cooking, cleaning, and gardening. He saw the way his muggle aunt refused to buy him anything that wasn’t already discarded by his enormous, overweight cousin.

He saw everything imaginable. The scorn, the hate, the names, the punishments for feats of magic, from days without food to the smirk his uncle would give while shoving his nephew inside the dark cupboard once his chores were complete.

There was but one memory, just one, that had stopped the Dark Lord from extinguishing the entire Dursley name and existence from the face of the planet. And only because the memory had stunned him into such a shock, that it had disturbed him for endless days and nights because of its sheer impossibility. 

It was a memory from the zoo.

 

He instinctively knew the scene would reveal something, but of what, he was not sure. The memory in particular had stuck out in the minds of all three muggles, each with the similar sensations of fear and unease, which did not fit in with his expectations of the family so far.

And so Lord Voldemort watched the memory unfold from the very beginning; from the moment the boy’s aunt rapped harshly on his cupboard door, to his forced trip to the zoo for his selfish cousin’s birthday. He walked beside the young Harry Potter as he trailed behind his relatives, lingering on the edge of each exhibit, seeming happy if only for a moment, and only because nothing had happened to get him into trouble.

When the Dark Lord followed the family into the reptile exhibit, he barely suppressed a sneer as he watched the fat muggle father and son knock harshly on the glass of a boa constrictor, urging it to move. When the serpent didn’t so much as blink, both of them moved on to taunt another animal, and the Dark Lord turned his eyes, watching them go in both repulsion and disgust, wishing he could revive them only to torture and kill them all over again. But his thoughts were interrupted when he heard something so distinctive, he did not think he would ever hear in such a muggle populated area, nor in such a person’s memory.

_“Sorry about that…”_

And Lord Voldemort turned around sharply, startled to see what he had heard, so very clearly, from someone close behind him.

And there stood the small form of Harry Potter, who had approached the exhibit from behind his cousin, leaning his head against the glass and looking sadly at the snake. It was such a bewildering moment that the Dark Lord barely paid any attention to the conversation itself, focused instead on the mere fact that the boy was speaking parseltongue. Apparently, this was Harry’s first encounter with a snake as well, seeing at how surprised he was when the serpent understood him, even through a thick pane of glass.

He was so distracted by an onslaught of rushing thoughts that he barely noticed the cousin approaching and the accidental magic that followed, nor the screaming and running muggles as the serpent escaped, or the awkward drive home with the boy’s family in absolute silence. The memory faded with his uncle throwing him back into the darkness of the cupboard for an undetermined amount of time.

And when the Dark Lord emerged from the pensieve at long last, he was in a state of pure agitation. How was it possible? Was it a trick? No. It was impossible to tamper with the memory of a language only _he_ should understand.

But the boy was a parselmouth… _he should not be_. The Potter’s were not direct relatives of Salazar Slytherin. The chance was so minuscule that the revelation left the Dark Lord furious for answers.

But it was not the only shock, it seemed, which left him enraged for the coming weeks. Not when it came to his attention that nearly every witch and wizard in the entire wizarding world had known about this ‘small’ fact since Harry Potter’s second year. Everyone. _Except him._ And not one of his followers deemed it important enough to tell him.

He had punished them, of course, and once his anger had thawed to a cool regard, he began to think once more about the possibilities. 

Even before his resurrection, he had known very little of the boy’s second year, busy as he was in anger over his failure at obtaining the Philosopher’s stone and existing as nothing more than a wraith. Once he had his body, however, it had been infuriating to find that one of his horcruxes was destroyed, and by none other than Harry Potter himself. It never occurred to him to know the details of _how_ it had happened, only that it did. His focus had been entirely on punishing Lucius for the loss of his diary that he had entrusted to him so very long ago.

But now… now that he knew the boy was a parselmouth, he had an entirely different reason to pursue the events of the boy’s second year. He needed to know what had actually transpired…

* * *

 

A week went by before Lord Voldemort stood once more in front of his pensieve, a collection of memories from the year 1992. There were so many rumors surrounding the events of the Chamber, that he was curious to uncover the truth.

Thus he moved forward to view a set of memories from the various students of Hogwarts, he cared not for their names, in Harry Potter’s second year.

In brief flashes of memory, Lord Voldemort watched as the boy and his friends walked through the hallways; their conversation just out of his reach. He heard the whispers of his basilisk roaming through the wall pipes of every memory too, to which no student was aware.

The Dark Lord saw as the school atmosphere became tense and quiet, increasingly panicked as the year went on as mudbloods and muggle raised students huddled to and from their classes. It reminded him heavily of his own time in Hogwarts, when _he_ had set the snake loose upon the school; his horcrux must have remembered as well, to insinuate the attack in such a similar way.

The one memory the Dark Lord was most eager to view was yet another one of Draco Malfoy’s, when Harry Potter became a known parselmouth to the world. Apparently, it was one of the only times the boy had used his ability publicly, and Lord Voldemort was quite keen on seeing the serpent language spoken once more in the open, this time with a clearer view and an understanding of what he was about to see.  

So the Dark Lord descended into the memory, the shape of a dueling platform taking place inside the Great Hall. He watched from the crowd as the young Malfoy boy and Harry Potter were chosen to duel, then stepped onto the stage as well. From the platform, he watched the two rivals exchange a few crisp words, bow, and then walk to their respective positions.

He also saw the specter of his once spy and servant, Severus Snape, whisper into the Malfoy boy’s ear, with a hard look towards Potter. The blonde heir smirked, and then nodded in affirmation.

Lord Voldemort did not know what would happen next, but when the duel started, he stood in the middle and off to the side as watched the pair exchange relatively harmless spells, each trying to outdo the other.

When Draco became frustrated the longer it went on, he shouted a spell, clearly one beyond his age group, and likely one Severus had taught him in private. And from the boy’s wand extended a poisonous, long snake, as the serpent bound towards Harry.

But the boy surprised him once again. When the Dark Lord’s eyes shot to Harry Potter, trying to discern what he would do next, or what spell he would cast or how he would speak to it and get rid of the snake, Harry Potter seemed to relax, even baring the smallest hints of confusion over Draco’s spell. His green eyes seemed to say it all: _it’s only a snake._

Perhaps it was the boy’s youth, or the small traces of light in Harry Potter’s eyes, but Lord Voldemort found himself smiling as Draco Malfoy fell back in fear as the boy started speaking to it.

" _Stop. Stop!”_ Harry hissed; and the Dark Lord found himself surprisingly pleased that Harry Potter was indeed a parselmouth. While he knew not how it was even possible, he did not worry about it for now. He watched in silent disgust over how much scorn the boy had gotten for displaying such a rare and exceptional gift, the crowd easily going against him. It was much the same within his own time, with the sole exception of Slytherin house, which practically honored the ability as proof of the Slytherin lineage.  

But as there was still much more to see concerning the boy-who-lived, the Dark Lord moved on to the next set of memories.

* * *

 

He was standing just inside Albus Dumbledore’s office, Lucius Malfoy having slammed open the door to dispute the re-installment of Dumbledore after the disaster of the Chamber of Secrets. Young Harry was seated at the desk, curiously enough, with Godric Gryffindor’s sword laying on top. 

Harry, for his part, looked worn and his robes were filthy and ripped in several areas. His arm, too, bore the signs of a recent wound, though when the Dark Lord looked, he could spot nothing but bare skin.

Lord Voldemort was clearly missing some crucial piece to the story. Harry Potter, according to Dumbledore, had by this point already descended into the chamber, defeated his diary (he saw it now, in tatters, with a gaping hole in the middle), and saved Ginny Weasley before she could come to harm. But what of the basilisk, the Dark Lord wondered? How had Harry Potter managed to defeat his horcrux when surely, it would have summoned the snake?

He watched, intrigued, as the boy used a cunning trick with nothing but a sock to free the loyal house elf from Lucius. He did not care much for house elves, but even Lord Voldemort could appreciate a Slytherin move when he saw one.

When the memory was complete, and the Dark Lord was once more inside his office, he thought at once to visit Hogwarts, and ascertain from his basilisk what transpired all those years ago; how it was possible for such a young boy to defeat him when there was so many odds.

* * *

 

His basilisk lay dead on the chamber floor. Lord Voldemort stood beside her, stunned; how had he not realized his precious snake was dead, and after all these years? He thought back to the memory of Harry Potter in the old fool’s office— the sword...? Could it be?

But then there it was, in the middle of her head, the basilisk’s death wound was quite apparent to him. It was most certainly a blade that had caused it— the sword, the boy… he must have…

Lord Voldemort retreated from the chamber at once. Dare he say it, but he was beginning to feel startled by the power this boy possessed. To defeat an ancient Basilisk at the mere age of twelve…and with nothing but a sword?

Lord Voldemort fell heavily against his desk, breathing deeply through the nose. So powerful. So young! So much wasted potential, if the boy had harnessed this power, he could have truly been his—he could have defeated—!

No. _No!_ He would not deny what he had seen… but the Dark Lord would not admit to his own fallibility.

And still, even though his churning thoughts over power and weakness, he felt the desperate need to know more. He needed to see everything…he needed to understand...and the Dark Lord needed Harry Potter in ways he had not fathomed before this very moment....


	4. Chapter 4

It was surely a moment of weakness, but the Dark Lord stayed away from his pensieve for nearly a month after he witnessed his dead basilisk in the empty chamber. He occluded his mind, trying in vain to suppress whatever he had seen, whatever he now _knew_ about the boy.

His Death Eaters, of course, knew something was wrong. Or guessed. As to what _exactly_ they were saying, Lord Voldemort did not care. Although it did irritate him to have his privacy so openly spread among his inner court, he could not stop the spread of small rumors—his search for Harry Potter had been announced quite publicly, after all, and even aside from his sudden need for memories, well, his followers were not entirely fools when they saw him disappear for days on end.

But when a month passed, and his days were spent hosting another week long celebratory ball towards his newly erected Kingdom, the Dark Lord found himself once again settled deep within his manor walls, ignoring the calls to join them downstairs and instead, staring into the milky white essence of a memory.  

He watched the castle form around his body as he strode into the memories of 1993, in what looked like the entire student body attempting to sleep within the confines of the Great Hall. He watched the students prepare for bed in the wake of the attempted intrusion… at the time, of course, being none other than Sirius Black.

He knew the gist of the tale. Wormtail had cried to him about it during most of his weakened state within his dead father’s manor. Black was hunting the rat for his betrayal of the secret keeper for James and Lily Potter. And poor, pathetic Wormtail had rather spent thirteen years hiding as a pet rat to the Weasley family rather than seek out his true master. Oh, the man had paid well enough for that.

He looked around the hall, though, his eyes naturally seeking out Harry, the boy with black, messy hair and round spectacles. He stepped over the bodies of the other, mediocre students, looking for the image of Harry Potter sleeping. Why he wanted to view this, the Dark Lord did not know. Everything about this memory was utterly useless, but for some reason…he could not deny it to himself.

He stopped at the edge of the hall, and his eyes widened a fraction. Harry Potter was laying beside his friends, but the boy was far from sleeping. Instead, his eyes were alight as he gazed up at the starry ceiling above, the stars moving to the rhythm of the nightly sky; Lord Voldemort looked up too, just then, to see the planets and the heavens above them.

Then, without realizing what he was doing, Lord Voldemort knelt down beside the boy who was pretending to sleep. All these protections… all these the locked doors…all were meant to keep the Boy Who Lived safe from harm. From the Dementors. From Black. From… him…

* * *

 

The patronus Charm was a notoriously difficult spell to perform at any age. Along with it being the lightest spell that the Dark Lord knew of, it was one of the reasons he had never desired to learn it— nor _could_ he learn it, given his extreme affinity for the darkest kinds of magic.

But even aside from those reasons, it still shocked the Dark Lord when a thirteen-year-old Harry Potter managed not only to cast the spell in its corporeal form, but did so against no less than 100 dementors, swarming around the weakened body of Sirius Black.

Harry Potter’s patronus was a stag...and a stag so magnificently beautiful, gliding along the black lake like the sun shining through a dark cloud. 

And Lord Voldemort watched the boy’s third year through the memories of many. He saw the boy save Black from the dementor’s kiss; he saw how much Severus had raged over the man’s sudden escape…and he saw how much Harry Potter must have loved his godfather, no matter how brief their interaction truly was.

When he reached the end of those memories, he stood beside the boy as he got off the train, back to a family who did not love him, away from his true home....

And just then, Lord Voldemort could for once understand the boy, for that common, heartless childhood they had both experienced….

Just then, perhaps, they were the same....

* * *

 

Lord Voldemort did not want to view the child’s fourth year. He had, after all, orchestrated the entire event. If not present, then his loyal follower had fed him information on the boy through Wormtail. It was…unsightly. He did not like to remember his own weakened state, as nothing more than a vile infant  _thing_ who could not survive without Nagini’s precious milk.

But the Dark Lord would not shy away from what once was. This time, he would see just how Harry Potter had fared in a tournament meant for those so much older than he....

The dragon was an interesting affair. Barty had never told him the specifics, and so he had no idea how Harry would manage the task of facing a dragon, had no idea how even  _Tom Riddle_ would have managed the task…but when the boy summoned his broom, the Dark Lord raised an inquiring eyebrow as the crowd behind him cheered. He could see confidence roll off the boy, now with his hands on the broom, even as far as he was, watching the memory from the stands of the crowd.          

Harry Potter truly was an incredible flyer. He flew faster than the dragon could keep track of, taking to the skies like a bird as he dived for the golden egg in a startling, twisting maneuver. Lord Voldemort stood mesmerized by the scene, the boy diving straight downwards so surely, so confidently, even as the memory faded into oblivion, and he along with it…

* * *

Harry Potter was late for the second task. Burning questions lingered in his mind as the shivering mess of a boy came running down the hill, with seconds to spare before he was disqualified from the tournament. Oh, how Lord Voldemort's plans were almost completely unhinged because of Harry Potter's tardiness. 

He watched the fourteen-year-old as he shoved gillyweed into his mouth— he even crooked a grin when Harry simply stood there, shivering in the cold, unsure of what to do next— yes, Lord Voldemort was quite aware that Harry Potter had struggled to come up with a way to breathe underwater. He knew this because his follower had come to him on more than one occasion, worried that the boy was too stubborn to accept any help with the task. Indeed, Harry Potter _was_ stubborn. He had waited until the very last moment, the very day of the trial; indeed, the Dark Lord did wonder at how his follower had managed to get the boy the plant in such record time, but alas, Barty Crouch Jr. was dead, and his memories no longer.

He did not have access to the memories of Viktor Krum, but Fleur Delacour had provided well enough, and of her own accord too. Pregnant, she had her husband had given over everything in mercy to the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort had been too preoccupied at the time to punish them, but now, he could not wait to unravel the memories she held of Harry. The boy had won over the half-veela's heart when he saved not only his own hostage in the trial, but the girl’s sister as well. He smiled, although the thought was somewhat dim. The Dark Lord knew Harry had a sentimental side, wherein he could not leave behind the people he cared for. He had, after all, used this to his advantage many times. 

It was true. The Dark Lord did not understand this aspect of the boy. But if it was anything similar to what he felt now... then perhaps it was the same thing...

That if Harry Potter were to return to him now…he may never let the boy go....

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was the end of another year, and Lord Voldemort sat upon his throne, overlooking his followers and guests with a barely suppressed sneer. Something was pressing at his mind, a nagging sensation that he was missing something… important.

_What is it? What’s wrong?_

But nothing was different. By all regards, the evening was carrying out exactly as it should—a party held in his honor, his guests dancing to the orchestra or else mingling in the crowd; it was a superficial, flamboyant thing, his birthday, but his followers enjoyed celebrating, and who was he to deny them another year of victory?

The Dark Lord’s rule over Britain had grown from its small infancy into its budding new kingdom of the world; many of his guests were foreign, wanting to have a taste of the power he was willing to give them. In return, of course, for their countries to submit, to bend their knee to his overarching reach.

Even Bellatrix looked delightful in her red glowing gown. If she wasn’t so desperate in trying to catch his eye, he might even call her beautiful.  

But still something was... wrong.

_What was it? What am I missing?_

His thoughts, naturally, returned once again to the boy… the boy whose memory was plaguing him day and night, trailing behind him like a ghost he could not grasp at…

_Is it the boy? Is that what I am missing_ _?_

His thoughts drifted back to what he had seen in the pensieve mere hours ago…

_Lord Voldemort stood in a familiar room at Hogwarts; he knew the layout, Defense had always been his favorite subject, and he had visited his professor often enough to know he was currently standing in the Defense room’s office._

_He knew the year, too— it was, after all, the year after his resurrection, the year the Daily Prophet had continually attacked Harry Potter and Dumbledore for announcing his return. Yes, Lord Voldemort had read all about that…used it, even, to his own advantage._

_But therein he stood, facing a most unsightly woman in a similarly unsightly room; she had, evidently, redecorated._

_Yes, the Dark Lord knew all about Dolores Umbridge and her disgusting use of the color pink. He had stolen her memories, of course, when she came to his attention quite willingly; the simple minded woman had given over everything she knew of Harry Potter, thinking to gain some kind of prize for her efforts to his cause; he had given her nothing, just as he had given Draco Malfoy nothing, whose memories were far more useful than anything Umbridge held._

_He knew the reason Harry Potter was currently sitting in her office, too; for shouting Lord Voldemort’s name in class; yes, he had seen that_ _entire spectacle. While certainly brave, it was just the sort of thing Lord Voldemort would expect from Harry Potter, and the boy had played right into the woman’s hand._

_But he did not know what Umbridge would do to her unruly student, who she very clearly despised. Perhaps it was not so shocking, then, when she handed the boy a blood quill._

_And maybe it was his own reasoning, his own flaw, but the Dark Lord fully expected Harry Potter to fight against it, to shout at the woman, say_ something _once he realized the true nature of the pen in his hand._

_But silence reigned, and Lord Voldemort stood speechless, surprised as he watched Harry Potter carve the words into his hand, “I Must Not Tell Lies”, over and over, a quiet rebellion, or perhaps just too stubborn to say anything…._

_But the detentions went on, far longer than he thought they would; Umbridge had a wicked streak, and Harry Potter kept writing, surely and painfully, scarring the words to his hand while blood dripped down to the floor._

_“Why do you do it? Why do you fight?” Lord Voldemort knelt beside Harry’s desk, asking the phantom boy who was quietly writing, watching as the words formed over his hand, healed, and then cut again._

_He knew, from the memories of Harry’s continued attendance in Umbridge’s office, that the boy had_ not _gone to Dumbledore like the Dark Lord expected… he had stayed instead, quietly enduring the pain and blood daily; he did not act at all like Lord Voldemort anticipated… he_ _did not understand this boy…he did not understand at all…_

The Dark Lord’s attention shifted back to the present when he found someone kneeling in front of his throne. Dolores Umbridge was shaking in her tiny feet; judging by the looks he was getting around the room, the Dark Lord must have called her name, perhaps unconsciously while he was thinking of—

“M-My Lord…you-you called for me?”

Who had invited this obtuse woman? He would punish them; but as of this moment, her presence was rather good. She may just ease his mind from his troubling thoughts.

“Dolores Umbridge. Head of the Muggleborn Registration Division… former _High Inquisitor_ of Hogwarts…”

The woman gave him a simpering smile,

“O-Of course, My Lord. T-That is—”

“Crucio,” he lazily flicked his wand in her direction, and her screams mildly lessened his headache, if that was the only thing that she was good for.

“I didn’t say you could speak.” A few of his guests laughed, and Umbridge attempted to stand.

“Both positions, I seem to recall, had some… difficulties. Is this correct?”

When the woman failed to speak, he spoke over her fumbling attempts,

“I can imagine… and such difficult _students_ too. I wonder: how did you manage to keep them all in line? Detentions, surely, wouldn’t have been enough. Tell me, Madam, how you managed to punish them. Say it.”

“M-My Lord…I-I didn’t—”

But Lord Voldemort did not let her finish.

“Such _lies_ … Madam, do you always lie to Lord Voldemort?” the hall was deathly silent now, as everyone watched the paling Dolores Umbridge, some with fear, some with a wicked kind of glee, waiting for the moment the plump witch would fail.

“I have seen…” the Dark Lord continued, as Umbridge was utterly too terrified to speak, “And I know of at least _one_ student whom you forced to write lines...with an ingenious blood quill too... how very _clever_...”

_What was he doing? What did it matter?_

_“Nagini..."_

The crowd parted generously between him and his throne, the mass of people giving wide berth to the large serpent queen who slithered up to her master’s feet.

_“Yes, Master?”_

Umbridge squealed as the serpent went by her. Lord Voldemort ignored her in favor of his precious snake: _“Eat”,_ he said vaguely, indicating Umbridge’s general direction.  

The witch must have caught on to what was happening, but far too late; she tried to run, but the woman's momentum was all Nagini needed as she struck the witch’s neck sharply, making Umbridge scream as blood pooled out of her mouth. Soon, and in front of a thousand eyes, Dolores Umbridge was eaten alive by the Dark Lord’s most trusted familiar. No one said a word. 

“Be warned: to all who displease me, there shall be no mercy. Now, continue.”

And just like that, the party continued, with a somewhat feverish start. Nervous laughter filled the air, but as Nagini went back to her den, and his guests danced to the orchestra, the momentary demise of Dolores Umbridge seemed entirely forgotten by all. 

_What is it? What am I missing?_

But the Dark Lord knew the answer, now. He understood it the moment he had taken care of Umbridge.

Lord Voldemort wanted Harry Potter. And he wanted him _back._


	6. Chapter 6

Lord Voldemort was thinking deeply as he leaned against the wall in Diagon Alley, invisible, watching silently as ordinary witches and wizards went about their day.

He had seen the signs…he had known the risks... and _still_ he had been oblivious to the threat that had loomed so near to him, and for so long.

_Severus. Snape._

_If one could betray him thus, why not another?_ he thought viciously, as red eyes scanned through the crowd of people, lingering on families who were previous sympathizers of the Order; oh, he knew they were still there, still lurking under the cover of loyalty to his regime, never voicing their own, rebellious thoughts.

But Severus…he truly _was_ one of a kind, wasn’t he? The man had held such strong Occlumency wards that even he, _Lord Voldemort_ , had failed to penetrate his mind. No, the Dark Lord had mistakenly _trusted_ in what he saw: a loyal servant, his faithful Death Eater spy placed carefully within Dumbledore’s ranks. 

But that was all a lie.

He remembered Severus, even now, so young and so _willing_ to bow before his Lord…wanting so _desperately_ to prove himself worthy of Lord Voldemort’s attention.

But after watching the life of Harry Potter…in the background, he had seen the evidence, year after year, evidence that soon became undeniable at some point: that Severus was Dumbledore’s man, not his. 

_But why?_

The Dark Lord did not harbor any feelings of anger or resentment— the man was dead, after all, and nothing else could be done. But still, he did not understand…why. _Why_ Severus had turned against him.

But did he not already know the answer…? Yes, Lord Voldemort had seen the way Severus _begged_ him, on hands and knees, to save Lily Potter’s life; the only request the man had ever made of him, and he had killed her.

 _So?_ His mind supplied casually _._ He had told the girl to step aside, _twice,_ but the woman had not moved. He had been impatient that night, true, and perhaps… it was a mistake to act so swiftly…but had he not already paid the price?

Still…had Severus really betrayed him over a woman? Over a _mudblood?_ Over _love?_ He sneered at the thought, but it wasn’t with his usual ferocity, and instead, a troubling sense of doubt crept its way into his mind.

Love. He despised the word, much less understood what made people want it. What was the point in wasting away over someone else? No, the Dark Lord did not love, and had never loved; Dumbledore thought it was a weakness, but the old fool was dead, and that was where _his_ love had gotten him.

But love…love was what had, apparently, moved Severus to turn against him; the concept, however worthless, deserved more careful thought if _this_ was the force behind Severus’s betrayal….

Love.

His eyes moved to the families surrounding him, of couples, of children and friends. Was it not entirely pointless? The Dark Lord had moved beyond such trivial pursuits like _friends_ ; it had, quite simply, never been important to him.

But _love._

_“I killed Sirius Black!” Bellatrix laughed as she ran past the fight, mad glee marking her features as Black fell through the veil, disappearing from sight._

Harry Potter had loved, that much he was certain. Lord Voldemort had seen it, in the desperate way he had struggled against the werewolf, stopping him from following his Godfather into the shrouds of death. How he had struggled and _screamed_ , and then pursued his dear Bella in reckless abandon; yes, the Dark Lord had watched this in sheer silence. It had…unnerved him in a way he did not fully understand.

_Love._

He closed his eyes, ignoring the idle chatter around him and focusing instead on memories, the deeper ones he had…avoided watching inside the pensieve…the ones he had not wished to relive because of the strange, hollow feeling inside his chest— his _own_ memories of the boy.

 But Lord Voldemort would not turn away from his own thoughts, and had delved into his mind, looking where he had not looked before.   

_He landed in the graveyard, next to the stone tomb of his muggle father. Wormtail was restlessly pacing beside the large cauldron, while Lord Voldemort himself was wrapped in a bundle of cloth—he pointedly looked away._

_But soon, the sound of the portkey’s arrival, and the Dark Lord saw the moment Harry Potter appeared, although he was not alone. Another, older boy stood beside him. The Dark Lord barely remembered him but was unsurprised as as the boy fell to the ground, dead by his wand, while Harry Potter was dragged over to the grave, then tied and bound to the stone._

_Yes, the Dark Lord had taken Harry Potter’s blood to resurrect himself—he had, on this night, tied them together by blood. He had stolen Harry Potter’s magical protection. He had stolen Lily Potter’s love._

_But his thoughts stopped when he saw his other self arise out of the cauldron, all bones and skeletal frame, until he was robed in a black silk cloak and handed his pale, yew wand. He remembered that moment, too, looking down at his long, newly formed fingers, and how much he had relished in wielding his wand, having his power once again._

_But as the Dark Lord watched the memory unfold, his eyes were solely on Harry. He had watched the boy in the moment, yes, but he had not watched him with anything but hatred— and oh, how he had hated the boy back then, who had been the very bane of his existence, the cause of his thirteen years as nothing but a wraith, a weak spirit that could barely possess the smallest of animals. But now, he watched with curiosity and a strange eagerness. Harry Potter should have died this night. But instead, he lived._

_Harry, the boy he forced to bow in a mocking duel. Harry, who dodged his killing curse with the swift reflexes of a seeker. Harry, whose eyes were the eyes of someone willing to die, to fight until his last breath. Harry, whose wand had connected with his, startling him and making him afraid for the first time…so very afraid…_

_Harry Potter should have died, but he lived. As Lord Voldemort watched his other self rage over the loss of the boy, as Harry Potter vanished from sight, as the memory faded to black…_

Yes, the Dark Lord knew why he hated to relive these moments in time: it represented his failures, his weakest points, and surely that was all. Surely... it had nothing to do with the green-eyed child who was being tortured by his wand, nor that strange feeling in his chest which he could not explain…no, it had nothing to do with that….

* * *

Later that evening, Lord Voldemort sat within his office in a quiet contemplation. He was currently reviewing Harry Potter’s sixth year, 1996, with different memories scattered across the table. But he could not find one, not _one_ , which would enlighten him as to the topics Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore had shared every other week.

Because Harry Potter could be seen, in numerous memories, heading off to Dumbledore’s office during the evenings for so-called ‘lessons’. But that was where his knowledge ended. As frustrating as it was, the Dark Lord had no idea what was talked about during these times, although he guessed it was more than likely something to do with himself.

And not only this, but his curiosity to see the old man's death led him to see that particular memory for the very first time. Draco Malfoy and Bella held the best memories for him to see the differing perspectives, but Malfoy’s memory was the most curious of the two.

_How had he disarmed him?_

He knew Dumbledore was weakened by his potion, when the old fool had stolen his locket, but surely that was not enough for a mere _student_ to disarm the man who had defeated Grindelwald. Besides, the Dark Lord had seen, in the very first moments of the memory...the way Dumbledore had been distracted, his eyes lingering on the far side of the wall.

Which led him to a new, startling thought, although he wasn’t entirely surprised when it dawned upon him: Harry Potter had learned of his Horcruxes from Dumbledore. _This_ was the topic they discussed in all those secret meetings. And…because he had seen, in various student memories, Harry Potter screaming at Severus for his part in the killing, it was clear to him what had distracted Dumbledore enough for Draco to disarm him: Harry Potter was present, invisible perhaps, when Dumbledore was killed on the astronomy tower. Which meant Harry Potter had gone with the old Headmaster to steal his locket. In Lord Voldemort's mind, this made sense…

But something was still… missing. Something…more had happened on this night, as he watched Severus killing Dumbledore in shining, green light. He had seen the blackened hand on Dumbledore's body, and knew it was from his curse on the ring. He had seen the way Dumbledore nodded slightly, barely even noticeable, and now that he _knew_....

He opened his desk drawer in idle thought and took out the Elder wand. The wand the legends claimed to be unbeatable.

Severus’s death had _not_ made him its Master, like he had originally thought….

But perhaps…he had been overthinking…if killing was one way of transferring its ownership, was it possible... that this wand could change ownership... over a simple _Expelliarmus_?   

* * *

 

He could have simply killed Draco Malfoy, that was true. Perhaps it would have alleviated his pounding heart from its present excitement—at long last, he would have one of his problems out of the way. That at long last, he would be truly _unstoppable_.

 _From what?_ his thoughts trailed, but he pushed away the doubt that lingered inside.

Besides, Lord Voldemort would not make the same mistake twice; if his theory proved correct, then Malfoy need not have to die to transfer the wand’s loyalty to himself.

But first, the Dark Lord needed to prove that Draco Malfoy was its current Master. And there was only one way to do it.

“M-My Lord, you want me t-to…?”

“Yes, Draco. Take this wand, and I will cast a spell, to which you are not to dodge, nor cast anything in return. Consider this… a test of loyalty.”

The young man visibly paled, but obeyed with shaky hands, which made Lord Voldemort smile cruelly. The Malfoy heir clearly thought he was to be killed.  

If his theory was correct, the Dark Lord’s spell should not harm him while he was holding the Elder wand. With Malfoy facing him, as pale as a ghost, Lord Voldemort cast his curse. But when Draco fell to the ground screaming, he frowned, and quickly cancelled the spell.

With a single thought, he summoned the wand back to him, while Draco got hastily to his feet, kneeling once again.

He was never wrong... his theory should have worked. Draco Malfoy should have been the Elder Wand’s master… but he wasn’t. Why was this?

_Could the wand’s allegiance have changed elsewhere?_

Before, he would have killed Draco for bringing him this unpleasant news. Before, he likely would have raged at starting over from square one, when he had been so _sure_ of himself. But something had changed…after years of viewing memories, after watching Harry Potter grow before his eyes, he felt far more lenient than he ever had in his life, and simply dismissed Draco, to which the young man readily complied. 

_Harry…are you changing me too? Is this your curse? Is this how you will defeat me?_

Stroking his wand, the Dark Lord's mind strangely returned to his previous topic, a lingering question on the tip of his mind that Lord Voldemort had never asked before.  

_Love...what was it?_


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Voldemort did not need a memory to recall the words of the prophecy; indeed, the Dark Lord's mind rehearsed it almost on a daily basis, as if a part of him was not yet ready to forget the damning topic of his own demise.

And he thought he had understood…once upon a time, Lord Voldemort had been so _confident_ in its meaning, devising a _new_ way to kill the boy-who-lived…or so he had thought, once upon a time, that the elder wand would aid him in this quest….

Now, he fiddled with the legendary wand as though it were nothing but a toy. It did not work for him, and Draco had proven not to be its master as well....

Beside him, beside the countless memories still scattered across his worktable, lay the single most frustrating item since Harry Potter’s disappearance: The broken snitch.

It had eluded him for years as to what it could mean, and along with the boy’s cloak, had not left his person since that fateful day.

He had poked, prodded, and every conceivable _thing_ which could fit inside the damnably small contraption, even without the use of magic, left the Dark Lord reeling for answers. And of course that infuriating inscription on the side, as though the old fool were right there, mocking him with his self-assured half-sentences:

_I open at the close._

I open at the end. But what end; the end of _what?_

Presumably, Harry Potter had opened it before he disappeared—Lord Voldemort had already read Dumbledore’s will in its entirety, and knew it was from the boy’s first quidditch match, where Harry had nearly swallowed the snitch in his effort to win....

And did it not evoke a strange feeling inside of him, a trembling curiosity, knowing as he did, how Harry’s lips must have touched the very same metal his fingers now ghosted over, curling around the edges as the wings fluttered close and—

And what was _inside?_ What was so important that Harry Potter must leave his friends to die? It was not like him. Even after all these years, Lord Voldemort held fast to this belief. The boy would not have left his friends to die. 

His thoughts moved to the other part of the will that had troubled him vaguely, like some nagging itch that he was not able to scratch—the book Dumbledore had given the mudblood girl. Although he did not have the exact copy, he knew what was written. But the tale of the three brothers was just a story, in the end. A fiction meant for curious eyes and nothing more.

But then _why_ —

Irritated, Lord Voldemort sought his wand once again, to calm his raging thoughts and questions with no available answers. However, his hand curled around the familiar ball instead, his pale fingers stroking the golden trinket in his palm that looked so dead and devoid of life.

As its wings twitched in discomfort, the Dark Lord relaxed, his anxiety coming down, which was strange as well. Normally stroking his wand did the trick, but as he clutched the snitch, his mind eased into a feeling of reassurance....

Because it was Harry’s snitch. Harry’s  _first_  snitch. He remembered the game too. The boy had been fearless indeed, diving down too far and too fast, a second away from life or death— Harry Potter, at eleven years old, was far better on a broom then Tom Riddle ever was.

He brought the little golden ball closer to his lips, and his eyes closed then, lost in a dream....

* * *

_The Dark Lord did not like this memory. It was an oddly painful one, in a detached sort of way— to view one’s state of weakness, his physical and emotional burden of having been disembodied for thirteen years, as well as his failure to get the stone, was a very sore point indeed. He stood beside Quirinus Quirrell, his once faithful follower who had loaned him his body. Still, he did not like this memory. He did not like the remembrance of his face behind the man’s turban, having to survive on the back of another’s head._

_He idly looked in the mirror of Erised, where Quirrell was still attempting to gain the stone. It was strange, but Lord Voldemort remembered seeing himself within the glass, obtaining a new and powerful body so unlike what he had now. When his eyes met the mirror, he saw the tall figure of Tom Riddle, older, but charismatic and passionate in a way his body still did not hold._ _The mirror was a trap set by Dumbledore, he had known that even back then, and still the Dark Lord could not get past the mirror when his desires to use the stone were so obvious._

_Then, not turning, knowing, the boy arrived. He saw him in his peripheral vision, so young and innocent. So fierce and brave when taking on a shade of Lord Voldemort’s power._

_“You?” Harry shouted._

_Lord Voldemort watched the exchange from beside the mirror, watched as Harry Potter was bound in ropes and brought before the glass to aid Quirrell in his desperate quest for the stone._

_He watched as the mirror granted him what Lord Voldemort had never be able to do— a completely selfless child, did the boy have no desire to harness such power? Or perhaps...he just naïve as to the true abilities of the stone. However, even now, Lord Voldemort did not think that was the case...._

_He wondered, not for the first time, whether this was Harry’s first meeting with the mirror of Erised. It did not seem possible, but the boy must have encountered it before. How else could he have known that the mirror showed only desires and not simply one’s own image?_

_Back then, the Dark Lord had promised to return the boy’s parents, if he would join him and give him the stone. It was a lie, but besides that, such a feat was not possible; no, not even_ he _could bring back the dead…._

* * *

As he sat upon his throne, his followers giving him report, his fingers threaded through the boy's cherished cloak, which rested upon his lap. It was almost as frustrating as the snitch. Why leave behind such an obvious tool for hiding? Why not take the invisibility cloak? Unless it was not his _choice_ to leave it behind, which made the Dark Lord's chest constrict in a painful way, as though he were suffocating....

_And either shall die at the hands of the other...._

_He_ would not die. Lord Voldemort was safe. Nagini was safe. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

His mind wandered to another frustrating topic, the secret of their connection. When he had first tried to find the boy, it was like a wall had been constructed, blocking him out as though Harry Potter had never once existed. Now the connection had faded, and the Dark Lord could not even remember what it was like to be within the boy's fragile mind....

_For neither can live…_

"My Lord?"

He looked towards Lucius, the one who had spoken; the once disgraced man who had redeemed himself over the growing years. He stood off to the side, giving him a confused look. It reminded him of what he had asked Lucius to do, which made a rare smile cross his lips.  

"Do you have the prisoner?"

_...while the other survives._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments, the story's going to get a bit more dark in areas soon, hope that's okay lol


	8. Chapter 8

Lord Voldemort stood on the balcony, watching the dark forest that separated his manor from the rest of the wizarding world. It was his private estate, and currently he was the only living being inside, besides his precious Nagini, curled up as she was in a deep sleep.

His mind traveled back to the scene he had fled mere moments ago; yes, _fled_. For Lord Voldemort had made an unsightly error, and one he was not likely to repeat. Lucius was cleaning up the ‘mess’, as it were, and likely held a thousand unasked questions, but the Dark Lord did not care. At the moment, his heart was still pounding in an unnatural way, still beating far too fast over a death that should have been joyous.

The body of Harry Potter lying dead upon his floor, glassy green eyes staring back at him, and the way his lifeless body had trembled and then lay still and—

Because when Lord Voldemort could not stop his wandering mind, when his desires overtook him and he wanted to see the boy within his sights, in the flesh and not within the hazy confines of a memory, when the past was not enough to soothe his anxieties and fears, so the Dark Lord took his study to an even more obsessive level; he had done the unthinkable, and against all his better judgments, transfigured his prisoner into something that resembled Harry Potter.

Try as he might, though, the Dark Lord could not replicate the boy exactly. There was always something…off. The nose. Or the eyebrows. And when he had grown tired of the man’s begging, his endless pleas and hopes of escaping, when the man evidently failed to preform in the way that Lord Voldemort demanded, he had killed… him.

He had thought that seeing his prophesied enemy dead on the floor would bring him great joy. Instead, he had panicked.

And the Dark Lord did not understand… _why_. Why had he panicked in such a way? He had long since discovered his desire for the boy to return, of that much he was aware of. But he had _always_ wanted the boy dead... so why had he fled the scene as though his heart was ripped in two?

It was this, more than anything else, that unsettled him now. Because he did not know when his thoughts had changed. He did not know how, or why, or even more dangerously still, if he even wanted to stop them from changing….

* * *

More than a decade passed since Lord Voldemort first began this endeavor. At night he studied his memories, restlessly looking for clues as to Harry Potter's whereabouts, and when his irrational self overthrew him, he would take countless prisoners to his study to observe what could never fully satisfy him. 

Bellatrix grew jealous, naturally, as the time flew by. She persistently tried to distract him by pushing the boundaries of their relationship. He had tortured her far too many times for overstepping her place, for her whining and begging, for her tears to let the past, _let_ _the boy,_ go. To focus on the future. On magic. _On her._

He had tortured her relentlessly for that insinuation, barely leaving her mind intact for allowing her pitiful feelings to appear in such an obvious and sentimental way.

Over the years, Lord Voldemort had likewise regained most of his former appearance. It was easy once he set his mind to the task.

And he had many reasons for doing so. He did it to sway the population to his side. He did it to breed compliance to his new regime. He did it to appear harmless and kind to his enemies... only to shatter that image whenever he so desired.

He did it to watch his prisoners with the face of Harry Potter respond to him in different ways. He realized they were much more willing to do as he asked when he had a more pleasing visage to entice them. Eventually, as Lord Voldemort could not keep killing his so-called experiments, he kept only his best, his favorites, secluded in the privacy of his manor. All with black hair and green, green eyes....

* * *

It was foolish, to be so afraid of one’s own self. To be so... averse, to looking into one’s own mind, to fully understanding one's own past and self. So very foolish indeed, but the Dark Lord could not find any other explanation for what he was currently feeling. He had long since lifted the strand of memory into the basin, but now he could only sit and stare, quite reluctant to traverse into its foggy depths.

The pale liquid, so thin and frail and old, stood before him like a great ocean, it seemed. 

After months of working up the courage, he had resigned himself to watch the one memory he really should have watched first. For decades Lord Voldemort had avoided it, to the point of pretending that the memory simply did not exist— but it _did_ exist, so carefully kept in the deepest parts of his mind, waiting for the day when he would dare to look at it. 

And only now he dared. Now, he had every reason to view the memory—it was the last and final memory he had not already seen. The point was long overdue. Because for every conceivable explanation to the mysteries surrounding Harry Potter, all could possibly be solved in this one damnable memory. 

With a final snap of his jaw, Lord Voldemort descended into the memory of that wretched Halloween night.

What fate had planned, he had yet to realize. 


	9. Chapter 9

It was the little things that struck him so when he landed on the pavement of Godric's Hollow, following the footsteps of his former self. It was the sky, so black and dark, cruel in the moonlight— it was the frost, nipping coldly at his toes; it was the curling chill upon his spine, the frigid air, the night so haunting and eerie despite what he had come to do. Yes, Lord Voldemort remembered all of it, even if now, in a mere memory, he could not feel a thing.

And so the Dark Lord walked again the path of his younger, eager self, who held not a candle of wisdom as to what could possibly go wrong. He had come to kill a child, and as far as his old self knew, a child could never defeat him. If only.

He watched as they drew nearer to the cottage, his breath hitching when his memory blew the door off the hinges. In moments, he would know. Know what was causing his heart to beat so fast, to finally know what the connection between them was. His every instinct told him to keep watching, keep watching…

“Lily! It’s him! Take Harry and go! I’ll hold him off!” James Potter shouted. Even watching the scene unfold again, Lord Voldemort could not help but admire this foolish Gryffindor’s bravery. It reminded him so much of Harry, who had stood so proudly against him, with his back tall, his eyes forward, his wand held firmly in his hand....

But James Potter held no wand, and the Dark Lord watched impassively as his memory shot the killing curse in but a few calm strides. He stared as Harry Potter’s father fell down on the stairs, dead.

A scream sounded from upstairs, and Lord Voldemort walked slowly behind his other self, stepping lightly over the body as they headed towards it. The mother had tried to barricade herself inside the boy’s room, putting young Harry in the crib and holding herself in front of him.            

Yes…he remembered _this_ moment all too well. The moment he had overlooked, had fallen victim to because he had never understood the magic of a self-sacrificing love. Even now, after all these years, he still did not understand...

He moved past the dark figure of himself and the woman, coming closer to the boy within the crib. Harry looked far too innocent as a child, he noted. But those eyes, green and defiant, he could see simmering just beneath the surface. And this was the moment. The moment when the boy’s mother had given all her love, and her dying magic had attached itself to protect the boy. 

“Please, not Harry! Not Harry!”

“Stand aside girl.”

“Not Harry, please not Harry, take me instead!”

“Stand aside!”

And as she wept for her son, and as Lord Voldemort stood beside the child, he noticed the boy had not once looked away from his mother’s back. After the third time where Lily Potter refused to move, refused to be spared in the place of her child, the room lit green once more, and the woman fell to the ground like a puppet without strings. The child still stared ahead, and looked curiously at the figure walking towards him, as though he could not comprehend that his mother had just died. The figure drew nearer, and the Dark Lord stood back, watching as his former self laid the tip of his wand upon the boy’s forehead, in an almost loving gesture. This was the moment, and if he dared to breathe, he might just miss—

“Avada... Kedavra!”

BOOM!

The Dark Lord might have fled the memory now if he hadn’t been looking so hard at the boy. The sheer loudness of the crash was deafening this close, the moment the spell rebounded upon him, and his body disintegrated into nothing; and yes, he could see himself now, barely alive, a wraith, a blackened spirit in the air but nothing more. He did not remember after this moment, and so he watched closely through the debris as the child now cried, and the air cleared, and… no, no, it was not possible, it was not—

A fragment of himself, splitting, then flying towards the boy; a black shadow latching itself into the wound upon his forehead.

No, no, no, it was not this, it could not be—

The memory started to fade as the Dark Lord lost his consciousness, and the rest of his soul escaped through the broken roof. He caught one final glimpse the boy, a bleeding scar, the child screaming into the night. He could not understand it, yet at the same time, everything made sense …but anything, anything but this, _this_ ….

He broke free of the memory and emerged into his office, his mind in turmoil over what he had seen. Over what fate had thrown at the Dark Lord in the cruelest twist of irony. 

The boy. Himself, splitting nearly in half after his failed attempt to kill a child. The murder of his mother fresh on his wand. His soul, _his soul_ ,finding the only source of a container it could, given the circumstances. 

A living horcrux. Harry Potter was a horcrux. _His_ horcrux. 

Should he not have felt...? Had he split his soul so many times that he could not recognize the boy for what he was? 

After what felt like hours, the Dark Lord finally sat down, and a twisted smile found its way to his lips. His heart beat wildly at his sudden knowledge, a realization that hope may not be lost after all. 

If Harry Potter was his horcrux...then he must still be alive. He _must_. If Lord Voldemort was still alive...then the boy should still be tethered to this world, somehow. He knew how tricky horcruxes were, and the only way to get rid of his binding soul would be for Lord Voldemort to kill him himself. Which he had not done, and to which he would never do again. Yes...if Harry Potter would not be found ...then Lord Voldemort would _make_ him be found. Now that he knew what connected them. Now that he knew the truth. There was magic to be learned, and soul magic was the most fascinating magic of all.

And he would bring the boy back…

Even through the depths of death itself.


End file.
